Deja Who (Insighter #1)(34)

“It was only because she told me I used to be William Simmons. Imperial wizard of the KKK,” Gray Suit went on at the raised eyebrows, indignant. “Which is just bullshit. I like black people! African-Americans, I mean.”

“Oh,” Spider Shirt Girl said.

“I’m sorry?” Archer added, not sure of the etiquette of the situation. Sure, most people knew who they’d been before, but it was considered private business. People didn’t generally walk up to a stranger and open with, “Did you know I used to cut Washington’s hair?”

“And she was just so cold about it,” Gray Suit complained. “Just, ho-hum, you were a real shit in a former life, which is why you’re a real shit now, don’t worry, we take Blue Cross/Blue Shield, see you next week.”

“Again: should I have stabbed you instead?”

“That’s not a rhetorical question,” Archer added. “So don’t be fooled.”

“I like you okay, Ms. Nazir, but your bedside manner’s pretty, um, shitty,” Spider Shirt Girl said, slightly apologetic.

“I’ve dealt with warmer morticians,” Gray Suit added.

“Then why are you here?” Leah snapped.

“Oh. Well.” Spider Shirt Girl traded glances with Gray Suit; they shrugged in unison. “You’re the best. Most other Insighters have to frig around for months or years before they figure out the problem. Or the past life causing the problem, I guess. You’re quicker. So . . .” She spread her hands in a “what are you gonna do?” gesture. It was like picking a dentist based on speed. If you had to have a stranger doing awful things to your mouth with pointy sharp things, it should be a stranger good at her job, and who cares if she loves small talk?

“Hmmm.” Leah still had that adorably pissy look on her face, but sounded mollified. And “you’re the best” didn’t do her justice. Leah was almost infamous in her field. People had written papers about her; he’d read several while in her mother’s employ. Funny how none of them picked up on the former child star angle, though.

“But I don’t want to kill you, Ms. Nazir,” Spider Shirt Girl said, almost as an afterthought. “That’s what we’re talking about, right? Killing you?”

“Right! You’re exactly right, excellent.” Archer was grateful Spider Shirt Girl was getting him back on track. “Anyway, I had some ideas about that. Maybe we can talk at lunch?”

“You already had lunch with Cat.” Leah, he could tell, was still a little peeved. He figured it wasn’t that she hadn’t known she could be a little, uh, disconnected from her patients. But that was a lot to take in at once, and in just those couple of minutes. Anyone would feel ganged up on. “And I have patients who loathe me waiting.”

“It’s not loathing,” Gray Suit piped up, no doubt trying to be helpful. “It’s more like general dislike.”

“With a dash of unconscious scorn.”

“Yep, that’s it,” Gray Suit said with an enthusiastic nod. “That’s exactly it.” He was eyeing Spider Shirt Girl with not a little admiration. “That’s really the exact . . . do you want to grab coffee or something? After?”

“Dunno. I used to be African-American. Is that gonna be a problem?”

“Hell, no. I used to run the KKK. I think we can have coffee together without a hate crime happening.”

They beamed at each other.

“This is like a cell phone commercial,” Leah snapped. “A bad one.”

“Oh, shush,” Archer said, catching her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s romantic as shit. And kind of makes you Cupid.”

She muttered something under her breath which sounded a lot like “oh, fuck me,” but probably wasn’t. But she didn’t kick him out, and even found a genuine smile for Gray Suit, who was her next patient.

“True love,” Archer said, settling down across from Spider Shirt Girl, who’d picked her Vogue back up. “Doncha love it?”

“It’s just coffee.”

“I wasn’t talking about you guys.”





TWENTY-TWO


No question, no question at all, but it was one of the oddest meetings she’d ever endured, and she had helped Karen McNamara (who had been Richard McDonald, founder of McDonald’s) get over her coulrophobia (fear of clowns). That had been a strange session; she’d never again be able to hear the ahh—ooo-gaa! those old-fashioned bicycle horns made without shuddering. Thank goodness, she had no children; a single visit to Chuck E. Cheese now had the potential to send her screaming into the parking lot.

But this one was stranger. Most likely, she assumed, because it wasn’t about a patient she could reduce to a pile of paper in a chart. That was always comforting, and it was wrong to feel that way, she knew. Unfortunately, it was the only way she knew how to do it. Much stranger, of course, to be the subject of discussion.

They were compiling a list of people who wanted to murder her.

Also: the Archer factor. That made it very odd indeed, but wonderful, too.

“Okay, so, top of the list: are you treating any psychos who are really into knives? That’s usually how you’re killed, right? Stabbed? God, I can’t believe I just asked you that.”